


Here In The Forest

by cheshire_carroll



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, BAMF Sansa Stark, Dark, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Not Canon Compliant, Not Episode 8.03 Compliant, Not Targaryen Friendly, One Shot, Reflections at the end of the world, Sansa-centric, ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshire_carroll/pseuds/cheshire_carroll
Summary: Westeros never had a chance, not really.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 231





	Here In The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Pintrest post (The Dark Side by Kelsie Shaw, link is here: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/156148312051085180/)

**Here In The Forest**

~

Sansa Stark dies in the greedy, frozen grasp of winter, surrounded by ice and death. She dies on her back and under a weirwood tree, her blood seeping sluggishly from the gaping smile she’d carved into her own throat with a blade of Valyrian steel. She dies, a sacrifice to the Old Gods at her own hand, her lifeblood soaking the pale, ancient roots of the weirwood tree while the carved face weeps crimson tears as red as its leaves.

Her very last glimpse of the world before it goes dark is of glowing ice-blue eyes and her mouth twitches weakly into a mockery of a smile as she defies the last of a long line of men with the only weapon she has left to wield, a weapon she‘s honed sharp as the blade she used to take her own life; herself.

She dies, Sansa Stark of Winterfell dies, but then– then _she opens her eyes_.

~

Westeros had never had a chance, not really. Any hope of them defeating the Night King and his undead armies died three hundred years ago, when Aegon and his sister-wives invaded their land with their dragons, when they came and they conquered and they destroyed an ancient balance between Seven Kingdoms that would never be restored.

Once, the Seven Kingdoms had known an imperfect but functional brand of peace. It was a peace of their own making, a careful balance of power and negotiated ceasefires, held in place by the ready assurance of mutual destruction should war break out between the kingdoms. And then the Targaryens and their dragons came, and they destroyed, and the Seven Kingdoms would never know that prosperous balance again.

Sansa is born in a time of supposed peace, but that peace is a lie built on the corpses of the innocent, written by maesters in history books with the blood of the betrayed. And it took very little time for that peace to unravel, for all the Kingdoms to turn on each other like a pack of rabid hounds, to tear their neighbours and once-allies to pieces and greedily devour the remains. By the time the dead come for them, their armies have long since crumbled from within and the dregs that remain are no match for the ancient enemy that marches towards them.

Sansa does not fight alongside the army; she is a Stark, a _wolf_ , and she will no longer apologise for the wild in her soul, yet her strength is not that of a warrior. Her strength lays not in a sword, spear or dagger, it lays in her mind and it is her mind that she wields against the wights and their masters. And yet, just like every other weapon wielded in the war for the living, it is not enough.

She is not there when the last of their armies fall then rise to join the ranks of the enemy, she is not there to bear witness to two dragons being brought crashing down by a third with glowing blue eyes before rising up to join it, or to watch Jon and his silver-haired lover, the foreign conquerer, die entwined with the other, or to feel pride and grief both when Arya, her beautiful, brave, broken Arya, slays an undead dragon, Brienne and Jaime bringing down a second, before the Night King himself cuts them down.

She doesn’t witness the births of legends and the deaths of heroes, no, instead she waits in Winterfell with the children, sweet poison slick on her lips. And when she witnesses the dead army’s approach, when she understands the living have lost, she kisses each child, one by one, soft touches accompanying soft words and soft smiles as she sentences them all to a slumber from which they’ll never wake. There’s a knife tucked up the sleeve of her dress, and once the children all sleep too deeply to feel pain she kisses them a second time, this one a kiss of sharpened steel to their fragile throats. It is the kindest mercy she can give them. Elsewhere, throughout the castle, the other ladies will be doing the same.

In this war, the women are not spared the worst of the hardships, the cruelest realities of its brutalities, and all but the children are far too aware of the terrible task that lies ahead for those who remain within the high walls of Winterfell. It was enough, even, to convince some women to pick up a blade and fight– better to die at the hands of a wight or a white walker, then to slit the throats of a dozen or so small children and then your own. But someone has to do it, someone has to ensure that if ( _when_ ) they lost, the children’s deaths would be clean, quick, and painless.

(And it isn’t as if Sansa is going to live long enough to be traumatised by it)

She goes to find ‘Bran’ once her grim task is complete; she feels a great deal of distant hysteria creeping at the extremities of her mind like frostbite, but she doesn’t break down. Battle-shock, she assumes. She used to shut down like this with Ramsey, Petyr, Cersei, and Joffrey too.

She finds ‘Bran’, finds the Three-Eyed Raven, waiting on his perch, the walkway along the castle’s battlement overlooking the snowy lands that surround their( _her_ ) home, overlooking the army of the dead that draws ever-closer in its victory.

“He’s coming for us,” the creature that was once her brother says flatly, no emotion in his Stark-grey eyes. It’s an unnecessary revelation; she’s already far too aware of their approaching end.

“What do we do?” She asks quietly. Her lips tingle somewhere between pain and numbness and the sleeves of her dress are soaked in the blood of the most innocent among them, now forever lost.

The Three-Eyed Raven reaches within his cloak and draws something out from its folds. Sansa recognises the item immediately, a hiss escaping between her teeth. It’s the Valyrian dagger, the one the Three-Eyed Raven had given to Arya.

The one Arya had left behind.

(Arya had never expected their victory. Some part of Sansa thinks she knew that, thinks she understood it when her sister had kissed her cheek before they left and slipped a knife into her sleeve, but she’d hoped anyway.

There’s no more hope now, though. Not anymore)

“Take it,” the Three-Eyed Raven says flatly and Sansa does, numbly. The dagger feels far too comfortable in her hand.

“What am I to do with it?” She asks helplessly. The Three-Eyed Raven just blinks once, face expressionless.

“You’ll know when the time comes.” He says, before turning back to the dead army on their horizon. Sansa can only nod at his back and turn to leave, for there is nothing left for her here with this dead-inside creature.

“Sansa,” the Three-Eyed Raven’s flat voice interrupts her departure and she pauses in place. “Sister.” He adds and she shudders, reluctantly turning back to face him.

“Yes... brother?”

“This is goodbye,” he tells her.

“I know,” Sansa admits. The creature attempts a smile. It’s a pitiful sight.

“Last time we parted, you kissed Bran goodbye.” He says, and Sansa appreciates that the Three-Eyed Raven doesn’t attempt to call himself Bran. Then she realises what he’s asking and her stomach rolls violently.

The poison is already beginning to burn her, she’s worn it so long. Still, it will be no less effective now then it was earlier.

She doesn’t waste time with questions, with asking if the Three-Eyed Raven is sure. “Sleep well,” she murmurs, leaning forwards to press sweet poison against his mouth. The creature sighs quietly when they part, his head turning upward as his eyes turn warg-white so he may fly one last time.

When he speaks of flying, those are the only moments where Sansa spies echoes of her Bran in the Three-Eyed Raven. Her heart breaks for this last glimpse of her lost, beloved baby brother.

“Goodbye.” She whispers to the shell of Bran that she’s sentenced to death before her Valyrian steel kisses his throat.

Still gripping the blood-dripping dagger, Sansa turns and walks through the empty castle, feeling just as empty inside. Without even intending to, she finds herself in the godswood, under the weirwood tree. When she was younger, the carved face had terrified her. Now she knows that it’s the pretty faces she ought to have feared, the ones that belonged to princes, lords, knights, and, of course, to queens, be they of gold or silver hair.

She can hear the army of the dead at Winterfell’s gates. The castle is barricaded, but if they can get past the Wall, they can get past the defences of a mere castle. It will be child’s play, really.

(Her lips are burning, now, they’re burning and she can feel the little beads of blood trickling down her chin from where the skin has cracked and blistered and she knows it won’t be long until she accidentally ingests the poison too)

She kneels in the snow of the godswood, at the roots of the weirwood trees, and bows her head as the snow soaks her gown and numbs her knees. She wonders what the gods think of them all, what they think of the mortals who have failed this land they were blessed with, who have for so long disrespected the gift of life they were given. The Old Gods of the North are faceless and plenty, and Sansa has no doubt that they are not pleased.

She doesn’t pray as she kneels there, not in the traditional sense, but she remains at the base of the weirwood tree, the crown of her head pressed against the pale trunk, under the carved face, letting her tears wet the pale bark. It takes her a long time to realise she’s humming; it’s an old song, a Northern one that Old Nan used to sing them. She’d never liked it, found it eerie and haunting and boring with its simple verses and lack of handsome knights, princes or kings, but she opens her mouth now to sing it, the words coming easily to mind.

“ _Here in the forest,_

_Dark and deep,_

_We offer you,_

_Eternal sleep._

_Here in the forest,_

_Filled with woe_

_All will fall_

_Beneath the snow._

_Here in the forest_

_Your fears you'll face_

_As you step_

_In the Old Gods' embrace_.

_Here in the forest_

_You are blessed_

_As we offer you_

_Your final rest_.

_Here in the forest_

_You will choose_

_And now you must win_

_Or you will lose."_

And then, just as the Three-Eyed Raven said, she knows exactly what to do. 

As she hears the Night's King's footsteps approach, Sansa Stark smiles and lifts the Valyrian dagger to her throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Only the first paragraph of the poem is from the Pintrest post, the rest is my work (poetry is not exactly my calling, but it was fun to try!)
> 
> Yes, it is purposefully ambiguous and open-ended - did Sansa time travel? Did she wake up as a wight? Who knows?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> P.S. I make no apologies for disliking the Targaryens and loving Sansa Stark. She's not perfect, but I love her.


End file.
